When I first went to Paris in 2017, I was charmed by the architecture, the Seine and the pastries. The city was alive with the stories of Alexandre Dumas and his son, as well as the myriad of unforgettable characters they had spawned between them. When I walked past clothing shops, I thought of Émile Zola’s descriptions of the rise of department stores. When I walked past clubs, I pictured Guillaume Dustan dancing within them. At Shakespeare & Company I thought of Molly Crabapple sleeping among the bookshelves, and then I began to contemplate other foreign artists who had made the city their home, such as Djuna Barnes and James Baldwin. I imagined Colette waving from apartment windows, and Virginie Despentes stalking the streets. That is to say, Paris was a city of fantasy to me.
The second time I went to Paris was a year later, when I was flown over for a booking with a wealthy client. Arriving ahead of time, with half a day to spare before I was due to meet him, I decided to see Versailles. It was an overcast weekday and so less busy with tourists than usual. As I walked through the park, with the crows cawing and the trees overhanging the gravel walkways, for a moment I relished the feeling of being alone in a famous location. Until, hearing a crunch on the gravel behind me, I realised I was being followed by a man, who then quickly pulled out his penis from his pants and at the same time reached for me. I ran, he gave chase; it’s hard to say who would’ve been faster, but thankfully a maintenance van carrying park gardeners pulled onto the lonely drive, and the man disappeared into the greenery as I waved them down for help. I had to pull myself together for an interrogation from the local police before rushing back to Paris, where I gathered myself together again to be in professional mode and meet my client. He ended up assaulting me.
On that day, Paris had shifted from a city of romance to a city of horror. My client went back to his wife, and I walked down the streets of the 7th arrondissement wearing my baggiest jeans and a puffer jacket pulled all the way up to my ears, so I could hide my face and body as much as possible. I didn’t want to be looked at by a man, let alone spoken to. The city felt hostile: I knew no one there, didn’t speak the language and felt very far from home. I was meant to spend the next day with my client but I fled to see my friends in Berlin on the first flight I could get. The beauty of Paris was marred by how defiled I felt; it had turned on me and shown me its true underbelly. The next time I went to France I avoided Paris, going instead to the south and the sun and away from what I felt was the depravity of the capital, making excuses of clashing dates whenever a friend suggested we meet there.
I didn’t go back until last year, when I was in London and a regular of mine asked if he could bring me to Paris to see him, as he was there for the Olympics and couldn’t leave. I was apprehensive; six years since my last visit, my most salient memories of the city were still the worst ones. I caught the Eurostar in the early morning (which he had paid for) and went to his hotel in the 17th arrondissement. He had paid for a three-hour BDSM session but he was satisfied after 40 minutes, so I was free for the rest of the day until my train back in the late afternoon. The day was beautiful, the streets were mostly empty, and I felt as if the universe had rewarded me after my last time here. I had come full circle—I had been brought back for another booking, but this time I was overcompensated and unviolated, and able to enjoy a city in a way that it would never normally be able to be enjoyed. I could even walk into restaurants on the left bank, directly on the river, without booking. Nothing was crowded. I felt that my body was both productive and powerful, able to make me money and facilitate joy, and that it belonged to me. Paris had changed, and I had changed within it.
If you, or someone you know, has been affected by the issues raised in this article, help and support is available from Rape Crisis England and Wales on 0808 500 2222.
